


The Path of Thorns

by Technicolour (Lirriel)



Category: ASTRO (Band)
Genre: Angst, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Pining, copious amounts of flowers, flower symbolism, slight body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-24 14:11:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18573100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lirriel/pseuds/Technicolour
Summary: Love is a path lined with thorns, and sometimes happy endings aren’t possible. Myungjun contracts the Hanahaki Disease.





	The Path of Thorns

**Author's Note:**

> **warning** : there's some _very_ slight body horror. like so slight you may just gloss over it, but better safe than sorry.

 

 

 

He dreams of honeysuckle.

He lies upon sweet grass that gleams emerald at the tips and darkens to dusky, deep-sea blue at the roots. When he turns his head to the side, examines the slender limbs of the honeysuckle bush bent beneath their floral burden, he is almost able to imagine that he has sunk to the bottom of the ocean – and the light dapples down upon him, as soft as rain drops, filtered between the boughs of the trees that cling to each other like lovers.

And when he looks still further, Myungun’s eyes widen – because there is Eunwoo, laid upon the forest floor with his eyes closed, his face peaceful. And he is _beautiful_ , a bouquet of daffodils clutched to his chest.

The dream shifts, a ripple of reality that finds Myungjun drawn nearer to Eunwoo, where he might kneel by his beloved, his hand light and hesitant as he skims his fingers along the length of Eunwoo’s jaw. It is smooth and defined, but there is a _delicacy_ there that draws reverence. Myungjun can barely remember how to breathe as his fingers pause in their journey, and he licks his lips unconsciously.

How easily, he thinks. How easily he might bow his head and press a kiss upon this sleeping prince.

 _Fey_ , his mind whispers, and he remembers that the Fair Folk bewitch mortals far too easily. But he also knows that it is too late for him, that he fell beneath Eunwoo’s spell long ago. And there is a pang in his breast as he leans down and places his mouth upon Eunwoo’s, the touch no stronger than the caress of a butterfly’s wing.

Eunwoo does not stir, and Myungjun sits beside him, awash in the scent of the flowers. They smell like hope, like affection, like love.

And when he awakes, he remembers nothing of what he has dreamed.

 

 

 

It is just another day.

It is always _just another day_ – today is one of practice, of the boys ushered through vocal work and then a meeting on their upcoming comeback. And there is a moment of congratulations heaped upon Rocky when one of his songs is chosen for the album.

And then there is lunch. But it’s hard to eat when Bin settles his arm around Eunwoo, nonchalant in his possession of Eunwoo’s affection. The others ignore it, too focused on the spread laid out before them. They aren’t holding a mukbang, so there’s no camera for them to entertain, no Aroha for them to focus upon. There is only the quiet sound of chewing, slurping, swallowing – and occasionally Rocky, asking Jinwoo how he might best approach the choreography for a song he was assigned.

Almost without thought, Myungjun interrupts to say _he’s_ the one Rocky should turn to. After all, isn’t he the best dancer in the group?

There’s a burst of laughter from the entire group, and Myungjun’s stomach flip-flops uncomfortably when Eunwoo says warmly, “My son,” – which isn’t even really anything, but it’s praise and affection. And when Eunwoo’s arm snakes around his waist to pat his stomach with the follow-up comment of, “Oh, your belly’s coming back,” Myungjun forces himself to laugh and answers, “It’s my old man stomach!”

“It’s cute,” Eunwoo says, smiling, eyes crinkled and nose scrunched just enough that he looks almost like a little boy – because he never looks _bad_. He’s always beautiful, no matter what he does, what he says, what expression he makes.

And then, as if summoned by Myungjun’s thoughts, Bin inserts himself into the picture with all the lazy grace of a cat, draping himself over Eunwoo’s shoulders, resting his chin in the hollow between Eunwoo’s neck and clavicle. “You should exercise, M-hyung.”

“I exercise enough,” Myungjun answers, thrusting his nose into the air for added effect. He raises one arm, flexes his bicep, and yelps when Jinwoo reaches over to squeeze at the muscle.

“Do you?” Jinwoo says, eyes alight with mischief

Myungjun doesn’t even take a moment to think. He launches himself at their leader, hands diving down and descending upon Jinwoo’s ribs, tickling at the skin he finds there. Jinwoo shrieks and squirms away, and Sanha says something in exasperation, the maknae’s voice sharp with disapproval.

“Hyung,” that’s Rocky, sounding equally displeased. “You spilled our drinks.”

“Oops!” Almost immediately, Jinwoo is back into leader-mode, his play forgotten in the face of his members’ dissatisfaction. He rises into a crouch and sets to work dabbing at the spills with a handful of napkins. Then, looking contrite, he offers his own banana milk to Sanha. “Sorry, have mine.”

Myungjun snorts when Rocky snatches the drink out of Jinwoo’s hand, taking a large gulp before he passes it on to Sanha. “It’s fine,” he answers – and of course he’d say that, when he was the one who just drank almost all of the peace offering Jinwoo provided. Sanha downs what remains and seems pacified. It’s not surprising, though – the maknae may complain, but he also adores their leader, and actually getting mad at Jinwoo seems wrong.

Like kicking a puppy, Myungjun thinks wryly. Even if he secretly likes watching Jinwoo panic.

“Don’t be mean to the kids, Jinjin,” he says, happy to have a distraction.

 

 

 

It stops being _just another day_ when they move to dance practice.

Myungjun notices it when they stretch: some small bud of tightness that wasn’t there before, nestled just beneath his breastbone. He rubs at the space between his pecs, near where his heart is. It’s a distracting sensation, but when Eunwoo turns the music on and the opening beats thrum through his chest, Myungjun finds he can ignore it.

They warm up through a few of their older songs, tightening up choreography that has become too natural, sharpening the edges to provide the most impact. Then they swap gears, the music goes off, and Rocky takes them through a new piece of choreography he’s been working on. It’s for one of the songs from their last album, one that the fans love.

Myungjun follows the steps easily enough, tucks his elbows as directed, but the sprout from earlier is back, and it has bloomed into discomfort.

He stumbles to a stop when suddenly, desperately, he cannot _breathe_.

And that is terrifying. Unable to breathe, his mouth gapes open like a fish’s. His hands reach up to—grasp, claw, tear open his throat or his chest?—but then air suddenly floods his lungs and he draws in so deep a breathe that he coughs in the aftermath. He bends over, spine arching, and clings to his knees as he wheezes.

There comes a flurry of movement, and Eunwoo is the first to reach him, Jinwoo just a half-step behind him. And then there is Moonbin, Rocky, Sanha—but they do not crowd, knowledgeable that too many people harm more than help.

Eunwoo rubs at Myungjun’s back, soothing circles drawn by hesitant fingers that are afraid they will cause further damage. Jinwoo is more practical, kneeling down at Myungjun’s side and saying, “Breathe, just breathe.”

And Myungjun does just that. The tension slowly ebbs from his body, the withdrawal of an overflowing river into the confines of its banks once more. His breathing stabilizes, becomes quieter, and Myungjun can hear, softly, so softly: “It’s okay, you’re okay,” the steady encouragement of Eunwoo.

The words don’t mean anything, he knows. They’re just something to say, a way to stabilize him and them—because they’ve all been knocked off-kilter by what just happened.

He raises his head, catches Sanha’s eyes first, and a weary smile flickers into place upon his mouth. He starts to say something—a joke, or encouragement, maybe, because it was too scary, what just happened. But then something in his chest _flutters_ , and he can almost hear the flowers bloom.

Later, he will imagine they blossomed scarlet.

Because suddenly he cannot breathe again, and he drops to his knees entirely, thrashing in place. He claws uselessly at the floor, then at the hands that reach down and flip him over. He feels exposed, can’t think of anything but the fact that he _can’t breathe_ —and then there is crying and shouting, and he makes out Eunwoo, holding him down with shaking shoulders, as red dots bloom in the corners of his eyes. They bloom red, wither black, and inevitably they cover his entire sight, and he can no longer see anything.

 

 

 

“You’re cute,” Eunwoo says, and Myungjun opens his eyes to find himself nestled into Eunwoo’s side, the younger man’s arm wrapped around him in a lazy embrace.

“What?” he asks blearily, because his tongue is syrupy with sleep. He thinks he has had a terrible dream, but it’s hard to remember. There is only this persistent ache, right where his heart should be. And, spontaneously, he twists his body until he can look down upon his chest, tugs the wide collar of his shirt down with one hand—and there, its roots twisting out further upon his body like a mapping of veins, sits a clump of newly-sprouting shoots.  

“Tulips,” Eunwoo says, and he reaches with the hand that isn’t holding Myungjun to touch one, a whisper of contact that nevertheless sends a shiver rolling through Myungjun. And he nuzzles closer against Myungjun, bringing his mouth right to the man’s ear: “I can’t wait to see them bloom.”

Eunwoo twists then, onto his side, so that he may face Myungjun properly. And with his arm he encourages Myungjun to do the same—and then they are kissing, so suddenly and so sweetly that Myungjun forgets the flowers that are growing from his chest.

His hand rises, tangles in Eunwoo’s hair, and when Eunwoo opens his mouth, Myungjun tastes rose.

The scene shifts, and it is Eunwoo above him: gloriously naked with his hair mussed and his skin flushed. Myungjun soaks in the sight of him, eyes following the flowers that sprout from the vines that encircle his body. They are jasmine, he thinks. The white bulbs bob with Eunwoo’s movement, petals fluttering down in a dazzling shower.

Eunwoo speaks and instead of words a bloom of flowers bursts forth, their petals ruffled like a lady’s skirts, each a delicate white with a throat of speckled red—and Myungjun can only think this is love. He accepts the offering gladly, feels Eunwoo’s tongue _push_ the tangled cluster into his mouth. And it crawls down his throat, leaving him tingly and giddy.

Eunwoo kisses him again, properly this time, without a flower in his mouth. When they part, Myungjun says, “I love you.”

And Eunwoo smiles and murmurs, “I know,” before kissing him once more.

 

 

 

Myungjun comes awake to the sound of a heart monitor. Its sound is almost soothing, if only because it is the only noise he hears in the sterile hospital room. He can vaguely remember that he passed out—that he couldn’t breathe—and that the members were worried.

After a few moments of quiet contemplation, he pushes the button to call a nurse, and one bustles in shortly, Jinwoo following after her.

One look at Jinwoo, and he knows immediately that Astro’s leader would like nothing more than to rush the bed and throw his arms around Myungjun. But he stands patiently behind the nurse as she greets Myungjun carefully and then checks his vitals. When asked how he’s feeling, Myungjun answers honestly, “Really good.”

Jinwoo laughs, points at the bag his IV drip is hooked up to. “That’s because they gave you really good drugs, hyung,” he says. He shares a look with the nurse, and she offers a short bow before exiting the room.

“She’s gonna go let our manager know you’re awake,” Jinwoo offers as way of explanation. He finally crosses the room then and settles down gingerly upon the stool stood next to the bed.  

“What happened?” Myungjun asks. He wants to ask, _Where are the others?_

Jinwoo presses his lips into a thin line, face oddly bloodless—as if even the memory of Myungjun’s collapse is too much to handle. But his eyes are dry, and at last he says, “I’m sure once Manager-hyung gets here a doctor will explain, but I can try. Do you know what Hanahaki Disease is, hyung?”

What follows is an explanation Myungjun can barely wrap his head around. He’s heard of it, of course—of course he has, it’s one of the few great mysteries that remain in the modern era. Scientists can offer no explanation for how flower-shaped growths can just manifest in the body, how they seemingly seek out and destroy their host’s lungs—nor can they explain why something as illogical as “true love” can cause the disease to go into remission.

But it’s one thing to know about the disease.

It is something else altogether to know that he has it.     

“It’s Eunwoo, isn’t it?” Jinwoo asks as he draws the explanation to a close. The sudden shift in topic leaves Myungjun no chance to deflect, and he dips his head in assent after a moment of silence.

Jinwoo offers him a sad, small smile—and now Myungjun sees the tears gathering in his eyes. Don’t pity me, he wants to say. But he settles for, “If the others see you’ve been crying, they’re gonna be upset.”

“I know,” Jinwoo says, bowing his head. He presses the heels of his palms against his eyes, as if he might force the tears back in. But Myungjun catches sight of a lone droplet carving its way down his cheek and looks away.

They sit there in silence: Jinwoo crying, Myungjun trying not to cry. And then the manager arrives with a specialist of the disease, and Jinwoo is ushered out. He offers Myungjun a small wave, and Myungjun shoots back a thousand-watt smile. It’s the only thing he can do under the circumstances.

The specialist launches into his own explanation of the disease, utilizing a number of complicated words to explain the progress of Hanahaki. He also briefly talks of its history, about his own credentials, and then the conversation flows back toward Myungjun, and he’s left with both his manager and the doctor looking at him. He can only stare back, now aware that the cocktail of drugs he’s receiving is the only thing keeping him from feeling the flowers infesting his lungs and crawling up his throat.

They offer him comfort, so that he can make decisions rationally.

There is nothing rational about choosing to prune away your love.

“We could have you in surgery in a matter of hours,” the doctor prompts. Myungjun keeps the smile plastered upon his face, even though he knows it must look stiff and awkward. It is either smile badly or scowl freely, and he has an image to maintain, even within the hospital.

Finally he turns beseeching eyes upon his manager and asks, “Can I talk to the others first?”

The doctor makes a sound—like Myungjun’s choice should be clear, like he shouldn’t even need to question having his very feelings ripped out of his chest—but his manager nods and moves toward the door with a swiftness that leaves the doctor with nothing to do but trail after him.

Even if it’s almost four in the morning, the members come running. They all look disheveled, and Jinwoo’s eyes are puffy monstrosities with how hard he’s been crying. They take turns offering him careful hugs, gentle pats—as if he will break at the slightest touch—and then they cluster around his bed, blocking out the rest of the world.

There is a silence then—it is only the heart monitor that offers any true noise, its consistent, steady beeping almost reassuring now that Myungjun has grown used to it. None of the members say anything, all preoccupied with Myungjun’s disease, with what it means. Because he’s not stupid, he knows they immediately looked it up as soon as they learned the name of what afflicted him.

When he looks at each of them in turn, it is only Rocky who meets his gaze head-on, eyes honest in a way that Myungjun appreciates. And it is he that finally asks, “How are you?”

“Well, I’m not dead,” Myungjun says wryly. He ignores the way Bin cuts his eyes away, one hand rising up to push his hair back. Eunwoo steps nearer, almost bending in half—and Myungjun wants to tell him that’s terrible posture, that he looks like a hunchback that way—so that he might be a centimeter nearer without actually invading Myungjun’s space. Sanha is more practical, dropping to his knees so that he is face-to-face with Myungjun, or at least looking up at him, his own eyes suspiciously red in the bright light of the room.

“M-hyung,” Jinwoo says—it is both a query and a rebuke: that he should not tease their youngsters so, when they’ve all been worried sick. But it also asks how he is holding up, how he feels, what he needs.

“Oh, I’m sensitive because I’m hungry,” Myungjun says. It’s a script he and Jinwoo share. Normally it’s Jinwoo in Myungjun’s position, desperate for some alone-time but not wanting to worry the rest of their team. “I’m _starving_.”

Jinwoo nods his head in exaggerated understanding. “We haven’t eaten either,” he says. “C’mon kids, let’s go on a field trip to the cafeteria!”   

“Is it even open?” Sanha asks, obviously unwilling to leave Myungjun’s side.

“Yes,” Jinwoo answers, offering the youngest a severe look that morphs into a friendly grin. He snatches hold of Sanha’s shoulders and starts forcibly dragging him away. The maknae yells and struggles, escaping Jinwoo’s grip only when he’s on his feet and headed toward the door. “They have a Starbucks, too.”

That gets Moonbin moving, something about a sweet drink spilling from his lips in that rolling mumble he sometimes adopts. Rocky follows him after a moment—and Myungjun doubts it’s the drinks that makes him go. He’s found Rocky to be surprisingly sensitive at times, and since becoming an adult he’s taken more and more of the group’s burden upon himself, trying to ease the work his elders face. Since Jinwoo obviously wants them to go, Rocky will go.

Eunwoo is the last, and when he finally starts to move after a long heartbeat of hesitating, Myungjun’s fingers slip out from beneath his blanket, curling around the hem of Eunwoo’s shirt. “Keep me company?” he asks. “Jinjinnie will bring us food.”

Jinwoo’s, “Why me?” is immediately followed by Rocky’s, “I’ll help, hyung,”, and Eunwoo offers a small smile as the foursome exit the room.

He circles the bed, and Myungjun watches him sit on the same stool Jinwoo used earlier. He reaches out for Myungjun’s hand, and their fingers knit together, the pad of Eunwoo’s thumb brushing gently against the back of his hand.

“Eunwoo, I love you,” he says solemnly.

“I know,” Eunwoo answers—and it sounds like déjà vu, though Myungjun knows they’ve never had this conversation. “I love you too. We all do. It’ll be all right.” He squeezes Myungjun’s hand for emphasis.

“I know,” Myungjun echoes. He understands that the burning behind his eyes must be unspent tears, but all he can think of is nettles.

 

 

 

They move beyond the forest, out into the thickets where poppies blossom and brambles weep, overloaded with blackberries. It is Myungjun who picks them, popping a few of the tart berries into his mouth, eyes briefly closing as the flavor assaults his tongue. Eunwoo strolls beside him, a flower crown upon his head—though Myungjun cannot quite remember where it came from.

He asks as he deposits a few of the berries into Eunwoo’s hand.

“Bin,” Eunwoo answers with a laugh, bright and clear as springwater drawn from the source. He eats the berries delicately, one at a time, his lips pursing around each like it’s a kiss to be savored.

Myungjun asks, “Is he okay with us?” and immediately wonders why Bin would have any problem. After all, they’re together—they’ve always been together, and sometimes Eunwoo’s flower climbs back up his throat, and he coughs out petals that are stained scarlet.

“No,” Eunwoo says. And he sounds—regretful. As if this is a conversation they should not hold, as if there are better things they might do with their time. He holds the last berry between his lips and leans down, pressing his mouth to Myungjun. As their lips seal together, the berry bursts and its black-red juice drips down their chins, the taste of a sour summer flooding Myungjun’s mouth.

They part, just a bit, just so Myungjun can look into the depths of Eunwoo’s eyes—and Myungjun sees tears that glisten like morning dew, droplets that hang heavy from his lashes. _What did I do wrong?_

There is an ache in his chest, so deep, so fierce—as if something has descended into his chest cavity and begun to scoop out his very heart.

“I wish this had a happy ending,” Eunwoo tells him.  “A dream that never ended.”

“Eunwoo?” Myungjun asks. Eunwoo kisses him again then, harder, and the tears he had gathered patter down onto Myungjun’s skin, each one a shock of warmth to his suddenly chilled flesh. He trembles violently in Eunwoo’s arms.

“I’m sorry,” Eunwoo whispers into his ear—and they are elsewhere, and Myungjun is in a bed and Eunwoo is knelt beside him, begging forgiveness. “I’m so sorry I did this to you.”

The heart monitor beeps insistently. The sterile white room threatens to blind him. And he is aware of a terrifying weight in the center of his chest, spreading outward into his lungs, upward into his throat—strangling him with a love he never asked for.

“You didn’t,” Myungjun answers, and their secret garden blooms around him one last time. He holds his heart in his hands, utterly alone, roots crawling over it like varicose veins. A single wild pansy blooms atop, fading from deepest violet to purest white at its petal tips.

He nourishes his love for the last time, showering it in a rainfall of tears.   

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading _The Path of Thorns_! I have a few fluffier stories in various states of completion right now and needed a break from constant cuteness lol. This is a pairing that I’ve unexpectedly come to really like, so maybe down the line I’ll give them a kinder story.
> 
> All the flowers mentioned have their own messages associated with them, but I’ll only mention the one that wasn’t explicitly named, which was the flower that blossomed from Eunwoo’s mouth. That was Rhododendron, and it expresses danger. 
> 
> Thank you again for reading, and I hope it wasn't too sad :')


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